Frapdoodle is totally the coolest swear on the planet.
:)
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Obsession: 'Garden State'
Okay, so I'm lying in bed and I just finished watching the movie 'Garden State' for, like, the nth and seventh time in my life. There are a few things I've found that I seem to rediscover every time I watch this movie and that's probably why I love it so much.
If you've ever seen the movie, you're gonna totally understand me from here on in.
Like, flat out- this movie is probably one of the most awkward pieces of film ever concieved. Awkward in the sense that it deals with certain aspects of life that movies usually just gloss over, awkward in that it just feels and makes you uncomfortable when you watch it. The speech and dialogue is stunted and short, the lighting is really kind of dim and the scenes are choppy but still complete. It's literally like watching someones life, not in the glossy Hollywood sense, but in the real, I wanna turn my head because it's so fucking embarrassing that even I feel embarrasses kind of way.
I remember watching thus movie when it first came out: I was at that point in my life that Large describes, the point where the house you live in no longer feels like home and about the dynamics of family. It's the scene about halfway through the movie where Sam and Large are just chilling alone at the shallow end of Jesse's pool and they're just talking while everyone else is dicking off in the deep end. Anyway, I remember watching that and hearing what he was saying and, to this day, that is the only scene of any movie that I have ever seen in my lifetime that has actually made me cry.
I love that it's such a contrast to all the perfect lines and perfect timing of other movies and shows. Even the ones that try to portray real lives end up being perfectly imperfect, kind of fulfilling the cliché by trying not to fulfill it at all. Go watch it, you'll understand what I mean.
If you've ever seen the movie, you're gonna totally understand me from here on in.
Like, flat out- this movie is probably one of the most awkward pieces of film ever concieved. Awkward in the sense that it deals with certain aspects of life that movies usually just gloss over, awkward in that it just feels and makes you uncomfortable when you watch it. The speech and dialogue is stunted and short, the lighting is really kind of dim and the scenes are choppy but still complete. It's literally like watching someones life, not in the glossy Hollywood sense, but in the real, I wanna turn my head because it's so fucking embarrassing that even I feel embarrasses kind of way.
I remember watching thus movie when it first came out: I was at that point in my life that Large describes, the point where the house you live in no longer feels like home and about the dynamics of family. It's the scene about halfway through the movie where Sam and Large are just chilling alone at the shallow end of Jesse's pool and they're just talking while everyone else is dicking off in the deep end. Anyway, I remember watching that and hearing what he was saying and, to this day, that is the only scene of any movie that I have ever seen in my lifetime that has actually made me cry.
I love that it's such a contrast to all the perfect lines and perfect timing of other movies and shows. Even the ones that try to portray real lives end up being perfectly imperfect, kind of fulfilling the cliché by trying not to fulfill it at all. Go watch it, you'll understand what I mean.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
There was yelling through the streets as Charmaine and I wove our way through the square. It all seemed foreign to me, the noise of people coursing through the streets like a pulse. I looked around, trying to jog my memory but it was a difficult process. There were teenagers leaning against walls, elderly sitting on the edge of the fountain, the sounds of a city scaled down to fit the square. The church was still the same, the only difference being that the once bright white paint had aged into a mottled and peeling grey. This was no longer the sleepy little town my mother and I had breezed into almost twenty-five years ago.
“Come, Charmaine,” I called, noticing that she was lagging behind me. I stopped to wait for her to catch up when I felt a sort of still dizziness hit me. I shook my head at the feeling, trying to figure out what it was. Déjà vu, that what it was. I hoped.
“What’s wrong, Maman?” she asked, standing beside me with a hand on my arm. I looked at her and smiled, her onyx eyes shimmering with concern.
Looking to the scenery surrounding me I felt a bubble of laughter well up inside of me. After all these years, I was only beginning to understand the method to my mother’s madness, but there were moments in which I knew her soul was coursing through me. Standing at the mouth of the square, I had one of these moments. I felt the laughter leave my lips but, strangely enough, it didn’t sound like mine.
“What is so funny, Maman?” Charmaine asked, her eyes wide in askance and her English lilting under her delicate French accent. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she searched for her next words, trying not to mix up her languages. “Is it this place? Because I don’t think this place is funny at all. In fact, I think it smells.”
I laughed again and this time the laughter I heard was mine, not my mother’s, and I was slightly relieved. I sniffed the air between my breaths of laughter.
“Ah, ma cher,” I replied to her in French, “I do believe that this town has…” I thought for a moment before replying in English. “Gone to the dogs.”
“Maman!” Charmaine cried, looking up at me with an obvious annoyance on her face. “Why must you keep doing that?”
“Doing what, my love?” I asked her sweetly, feigning innocence.
“That! First English, then French, then Dutch, and back to English! It’s confusing!” She stomped one of her little feet on the concrete sidewalk square beneath her. Gone are the cobblestones, I noted to myself before quickly reverting my attention back to my daughter.
“I must keep you on your toes, darling!” I replied to her in Dutch as I picked her up. She squealed in delight, all annoyance gone. Holding her in one arm, I swept out my other across the square.
“Maman, what is this place?”
“Do you remember the sleepy little village Granmère Sophie used to constantly speak of?” Charmaine nodded her head. “Well, ma petite souris, this is that sleepy little village.”
Looking at me puzzled for a moment, Charmaine wriggled free of my hold and leapt from my arms. Running ahead of me, she turned in a circle then stopped. She looked up to the sky, the clear blue canvas above her, then I saw her eyes travel down, quickly studying the buildings that bordered the little square. I approached her as the eyes of townspeople began to notice us. Taking her hand, we walked towards the fountain and sat on it’s edge.
“But this village is anything but sleepy, Maman!” She gestured to a group of raucous teenagers playing dice against a building wall. “They’re terribly loud for a sleepy little village, don’t you think?”
“Ah, how times change,” I whispered to her. I closed my eyes and remembered the old village of when I was six. “Time certainly do change.”
“And it is much too big to be a village,” I vaguely heard her quip. She was right. The tiny, close-knit village of my reveries had grown and transformed into a bustling town.
Charmaine’s voice pulled me out of my memories as her hand tugged at mine. “Come, Maman! Show me where Grandmère’s bakery used to be!”
I stood and watched my daughter for a moment, feeling a strong guilt-laced pang of kinship with my mother. She must have felt the exact same way I felt, watching an excited daughter of six ready to take on the world. I shook the feeling and caught up to her, taking her small hand in my own and guiding her to the main vein of streets that would lead through the winding boulevards and avenues I used to know by heart. As we walked, I tried to place the buildings and shops from my past into the new structures and the current reality. It was hard.
“And this used to be Rue Avenue,” I informed Charmaine as we walked down the largest street. I searched out a street sign and found one, the brightly painted metal placard seeming garishly out of place against the ancient signpost it was affixed to.
“Rue Se-se-secor-ord,” Charmaine read slowly, sounding out the letters phonetically. I waited patiently until she was repeating the street name into her memory. “Rue Secord. Rue Secord.”
“Very good, darling.” I smiled at her encouragingly as I switched my tongue to French. “Now, down this street is where Granmaman had her bakery and patisserie. Can you tell me what a patisserie is in English?”
Charmaine hesitated as we strolled. I could feel her fingers drum lightly into my hand as she contemplated her answer. I chanced a glance ahead of us, to see how far our paces had taken us when I saw the hanging shop sign swaying in the breeze in the distance. I narrowed my eyes and chuckled to myself.
That stupid sign. That stupid sign was still there, still being used, although sorely neglected, I noticed. The bell beside it that used to be connected to the door was gone, that goddamn bell ringing incessantly, a sign of good fortune for my mother but one of sheer annoyance for me. Twenty-five years of dirt, grime, and countless seasons had abused the sign and one could barely make out the juvenilely painted loaves of bread with white squiggles of steam rising from them. I had made that sign. It was a surprise, a gift to my mother when we had first moved to Rizal all those years ago. I could remember my excitement as I searched the riverside for the right piece of wood –
“Pastry shop!” Charmaine cried, beaming proudly.
“Excellent!” I could feel the pride emanating from my own grin as I squeezed her hand. I pointed towards the weather beaten and blackened wood sign swinging in the distance. “Do you see that, ma petit souris?”
“Uhhh… Uh-huh,” she replied nonchalantly as her gaze tried to follow the invisible path my finger was directing to.
“That, my angel,” I whispered to her, my tongue choosing Dutch this time, “is Granmère Sophie’s bakery.”
She looked at me with wide eyes, absently sidestepping a small clutch of washerwomen and laundresses. They looked at us warmly and cooed over Charmaine in her red pea coat, red beret, and matching red patent strapped shoes. A jolt of motherly pride mixed with another pang of motherly kinship ran through me and my smile broadened.
Charmaine skipped ahead of me, eager to share in our family history, as I followed, my vision beginning to fade into the sepia of my memories. Six year old me was running along side Charmaine, both casting an occasional glance backwards for a sign of approval. I nodded my head as I remembered my mother had and the two little girls surged forth a little further. I had to blink as they ran: it almost looked like the two were holding hands.
Stopping in front of the bakery window, Charmaine waited for me impatiently as the six year old me of my memories grew fainter with every step. Finally, I stood with Charmaine, our reflections staring at us. I was startled to see white curtains drawn inside the window pane.
“Is it closed, Maman?” Charmaine’s expression of excitement began to melt, her eyes looking crestfallen.
I glanced at my watch and smelled the air. “No, it’s a Tuesday morning. And I smell bread.” I leant over and looked at the glass door. Catching the eye of an exiting patron, I smiled politely. He smiled in response. I heard a weak tinkle of a bell as he pushed the door open.
“Excuse me, sir,” I asked, tugging on the red woolen lapel of Charmaine’s pea coat as I turned away. I felt her little hand grasp mine. “The bakery is open, correct?”
He was an elderly man, perhaps in his early seventies. He seemed to be in the same condition as the old bakery sign hanging above, stooped and beaten by age, leaning heavily on a knobby wooden cane. His face was sun spotted and jowly. Looking him straight in the eye, I was again taken aback: one eye was a bright clear blue, the other sparkling electric green. I knew this man.
“Yes, yes, my dear,” he replied in a French that had been slowed with age. He stood in the bakery doorway, holding the door open for us. I could smell the familiar aroma of breads and pastries waft through. “The bakery is open. They’re just putting the finishing touches on the new window display.”
I searched his face to see if he recognized me but I saw no spark of familiarity pass through his blue and green eyes. I thanked him.
“You’re very welcome. I’m curious myself to see it,” he said, letting the door swing shut behind him. He walked over and stood beside Charmaine and the three of us watched as the heavy white curtains jostled and flapped inside the store.
“The owners put up a new window display every Tuesday,” observed the man. I watched in the windowed reflection as Charmaine turned her face up to look at him, eyes wide half in fright and half in eager interest. “It’s all very nice: loaves lined up at the ready, cookies and tarts patterned around the whole thing. Nothing so intricate though.”
I smiled as I remembered Mother’s window arrangements. Intricate scenes, every week something new and exciting. One week a carnival, another a scene at a zoo, animals and miniature people, too, all out of baked goods. I knew in my heart that what we were about to witness was nothing compared to the audience my mother used to attract when she was running the bakery.
“Yes, I’ve stood at this window every week for the past twenty-five years to see what new wonders lay behind that curtain,” he continued. I quirked an eyebrow and he turned to look at Charmaine, a kind smile gracing his aged face. “Used to be the old owner would have whole worlds waiting behind that curtain. Well, it wasn’t a curtain back then, more of a wooden shade contraption. But I remember the crowds that would gather, just waiting for Madame D’Orlean to pull up that shade.”
“Really?” I heard Charmaine whisper in awe. There was a warm silence as the elderly gentleman nodded his assent.
I felt Charmaine let go of my hand and I watched her march in front of him with pride. “My grandmother used to own this shop.”
It took a moment for the gentleman to process Charmaine’s words. He looked at her closely then turned to me, his eyes tight in the fight to remember a face.
“Really,” he stated slowly, looking between Charmaine and myself once again. I felt a sly grin creep across my lips as he tried to connect me with the little girl he had met, what seemed, a lifetime ago. He addressed Charmaine as he stared at me, his voice growing lower at the bewilderment. “If your grandmother used to own this shop, then you must be Sophia D’Orlean’s daughter!”
I laughed. “Oui, Monsieur Colle. I have to say, I’m quite surprised you did not recognize me.”
“Julienne! Heavens, me!” He raised his arms in the air and I saw Charmaine duck out of the way of his flying cane. “Recognize you? An old man like me? I never would’ve guessed in a thousand centuries!”
He clasped my hands tightly in his own as we shared a laugh. Feeling Charmaine standing behind me, I stepped aside to reveal her. “My daughter, Charmaine. Darling, this is a dear old friend of mine and Granmère Sophie’s, Monsieur Regis Colle.”
Colle stooped even lower and grasped her hand before righting himself again. He wiped the sweat off his brow from all the excitement, turned to us again and smiled.
“I should have known," he said, the twinkle in his eyes alive and electric. "I should have known."
“Come, Charmaine,” I called, noticing that she was lagging behind me. I stopped to wait for her to catch up when I felt a sort of still dizziness hit me. I shook my head at the feeling, trying to figure out what it was. Déjà vu, that what it was. I hoped.
“What’s wrong, Maman?” she asked, standing beside me with a hand on my arm. I looked at her and smiled, her onyx eyes shimmering with concern.
Looking to the scenery surrounding me I felt a bubble of laughter well up inside of me. After all these years, I was only beginning to understand the method to my mother’s madness, but there were moments in which I knew her soul was coursing through me. Standing at the mouth of the square, I had one of these moments. I felt the laughter leave my lips but, strangely enough, it didn’t sound like mine.
“What is so funny, Maman?” Charmaine asked, her eyes wide in askance and her English lilting under her delicate French accent. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she searched for her next words, trying not to mix up her languages. “Is it this place? Because I don’t think this place is funny at all. In fact, I think it smells.”
I laughed again and this time the laughter I heard was mine, not my mother’s, and I was slightly relieved. I sniffed the air between my breaths of laughter.
“Ah, ma cher,” I replied to her in French, “I do believe that this town has…” I thought for a moment before replying in English. “Gone to the dogs.”
“Maman!” Charmaine cried, looking up at me with an obvious annoyance on her face. “Why must you keep doing that?”
“Doing what, my love?” I asked her sweetly, feigning innocence.
“That! First English, then French, then Dutch, and back to English! It’s confusing!” She stomped one of her little feet on the concrete sidewalk square beneath her. Gone are the cobblestones, I noted to myself before quickly reverting my attention back to my daughter.
“I must keep you on your toes, darling!” I replied to her in Dutch as I picked her up. She squealed in delight, all annoyance gone. Holding her in one arm, I swept out my other across the square.
“Maman, what is this place?”
“Do you remember the sleepy little village Granmère Sophie used to constantly speak of?” Charmaine nodded her head. “Well, ma petite souris, this is that sleepy little village.”
Looking at me puzzled for a moment, Charmaine wriggled free of my hold and leapt from my arms. Running ahead of me, she turned in a circle then stopped. She looked up to the sky, the clear blue canvas above her, then I saw her eyes travel down, quickly studying the buildings that bordered the little square. I approached her as the eyes of townspeople began to notice us. Taking her hand, we walked towards the fountain and sat on it’s edge.
“But this village is anything but sleepy, Maman!” She gestured to a group of raucous teenagers playing dice against a building wall. “They’re terribly loud for a sleepy little village, don’t you think?”
“Ah, how times change,” I whispered to her. I closed my eyes and remembered the old village of when I was six. “Time certainly do change.”
“And it is much too big to be a village,” I vaguely heard her quip. She was right. The tiny, close-knit village of my reveries had grown and transformed into a bustling town.
Charmaine’s voice pulled me out of my memories as her hand tugged at mine. “Come, Maman! Show me where Grandmère’s bakery used to be!”
I stood and watched my daughter for a moment, feeling a strong guilt-laced pang of kinship with my mother. She must have felt the exact same way I felt, watching an excited daughter of six ready to take on the world. I shook the feeling and caught up to her, taking her small hand in my own and guiding her to the main vein of streets that would lead through the winding boulevards and avenues I used to know by heart. As we walked, I tried to place the buildings and shops from my past into the new structures and the current reality. It was hard.
“And this used to be Rue Avenue,” I informed Charmaine as we walked down the largest street. I searched out a street sign and found one, the brightly painted metal placard seeming garishly out of place against the ancient signpost it was affixed to.
“Rue Se-se-secor-ord,” Charmaine read slowly, sounding out the letters phonetically. I waited patiently until she was repeating the street name into her memory. “Rue Secord. Rue Secord.”
“Very good, darling.” I smiled at her encouragingly as I switched my tongue to French. “Now, down this street is where Granmaman had her bakery and patisserie. Can you tell me what a patisserie is in English?”
Charmaine hesitated as we strolled. I could feel her fingers drum lightly into my hand as she contemplated her answer. I chanced a glance ahead of us, to see how far our paces had taken us when I saw the hanging shop sign swaying in the breeze in the distance. I narrowed my eyes and chuckled to myself.
That stupid sign. That stupid sign was still there, still being used, although sorely neglected, I noticed. The bell beside it that used to be connected to the door was gone, that goddamn bell ringing incessantly, a sign of good fortune for my mother but one of sheer annoyance for me. Twenty-five years of dirt, grime, and countless seasons had abused the sign and one could barely make out the juvenilely painted loaves of bread with white squiggles of steam rising from them. I had made that sign. It was a surprise, a gift to my mother when we had first moved to Rizal all those years ago. I could remember my excitement as I searched the riverside for the right piece of wood –
“Pastry shop!” Charmaine cried, beaming proudly.
“Excellent!” I could feel the pride emanating from my own grin as I squeezed her hand. I pointed towards the weather beaten and blackened wood sign swinging in the distance. “Do you see that, ma petit souris?”
“Uhhh… Uh-huh,” she replied nonchalantly as her gaze tried to follow the invisible path my finger was directing to.
“That, my angel,” I whispered to her, my tongue choosing Dutch this time, “is Granmère Sophie’s bakery.”
She looked at me with wide eyes, absently sidestepping a small clutch of washerwomen and laundresses. They looked at us warmly and cooed over Charmaine in her red pea coat, red beret, and matching red patent strapped shoes. A jolt of motherly pride mixed with another pang of motherly kinship ran through me and my smile broadened.
Charmaine skipped ahead of me, eager to share in our family history, as I followed, my vision beginning to fade into the sepia of my memories. Six year old me was running along side Charmaine, both casting an occasional glance backwards for a sign of approval. I nodded my head as I remembered my mother had and the two little girls surged forth a little further. I had to blink as they ran: it almost looked like the two were holding hands.
Stopping in front of the bakery window, Charmaine waited for me impatiently as the six year old me of my memories grew fainter with every step. Finally, I stood with Charmaine, our reflections staring at us. I was startled to see white curtains drawn inside the window pane.
“Is it closed, Maman?” Charmaine’s expression of excitement began to melt, her eyes looking crestfallen.
I glanced at my watch and smelled the air. “No, it’s a Tuesday morning. And I smell bread.” I leant over and looked at the glass door. Catching the eye of an exiting patron, I smiled politely. He smiled in response. I heard a weak tinkle of a bell as he pushed the door open.
“Excuse me, sir,” I asked, tugging on the red woolen lapel of Charmaine’s pea coat as I turned away. I felt her little hand grasp mine. “The bakery is open, correct?”
He was an elderly man, perhaps in his early seventies. He seemed to be in the same condition as the old bakery sign hanging above, stooped and beaten by age, leaning heavily on a knobby wooden cane. His face was sun spotted and jowly. Looking him straight in the eye, I was again taken aback: one eye was a bright clear blue, the other sparkling electric green. I knew this man.
“Yes, yes, my dear,” he replied in a French that had been slowed with age. He stood in the bakery doorway, holding the door open for us. I could smell the familiar aroma of breads and pastries waft through. “The bakery is open. They’re just putting the finishing touches on the new window display.”
I searched his face to see if he recognized me but I saw no spark of familiarity pass through his blue and green eyes. I thanked him.
“You’re very welcome. I’m curious myself to see it,” he said, letting the door swing shut behind him. He walked over and stood beside Charmaine and the three of us watched as the heavy white curtains jostled and flapped inside the store.
“The owners put up a new window display every Tuesday,” observed the man. I watched in the windowed reflection as Charmaine turned her face up to look at him, eyes wide half in fright and half in eager interest. “It’s all very nice: loaves lined up at the ready, cookies and tarts patterned around the whole thing. Nothing so intricate though.”
I smiled as I remembered Mother’s window arrangements. Intricate scenes, every week something new and exciting. One week a carnival, another a scene at a zoo, animals and miniature people, too, all out of baked goods. I knew in my heart that what we were about to witness was nothing compared to the audience my mother used to attract when she was running the bakery.
“Yes, I’ve stood at this window every week for the past twenty-five years to see what new wonders lay behind that curtain,” he continued. I quirked an eyebrow and he turned to look at Charmaine, a kind smile gracing his aged face. “Used to be the old owner would have whole worlds waiting behind that curtain. Well, it wasn’t a curtain back then, more of a wooden shade contraption. But I remember the crowds that would gather, just waiting for Madame D’Orlean to pull up that shade.”
“Really?” I heard Charmaine whisper in awe. There was a warm silence as the elderly gentleman nodded his assent.
I felt Charmaine let go of my hand and I watched her march in front of him with pride. “My grandmother used to own this shop.”
It took a moment for the gentleman to process Charmaine’s words. He looked at her closely then turned to me, his eyes tight in the fight to remember a face.
“Really,” he stated slowly, looking between Charmaine and myself once again. I felt a sly grin creep across my lips as he tried to connect me with the little girl he had met, what seemed, a lifetime ago. He addressed Charmaine as he stared at me, his voice growing lower at the bewilderment. “If your grandmother used to own this shop, then you must be Sophia D’Orlean’s daughter!”
I laughed. “Oui, Monsieur Colle. I have to say, I’m quite surprised you did not recognize me.”
“Julienne! Heavens, me!” He raised his arms in the air and I saw Charmaine duck out of the way of his flying cane. “Recognize you? An old man like me? I never would’ve guessed in a thousand centuries!”
He clasped my hands tightly in his own as we shared a laugh. Feeling Charmaine standing behind me, I stepped aside to reveal her. “My daughter, Charmaine. Darling, this is a dear old friend of mine and Granmère Sophie’s, Monsieur Regis Colle.”
Colle stooped even lower and grasped her hand before righting himself again. He wiped the sweat off his brow from all the excitement, turned to us again and smiled.
“I should have known," he said, the twinkle in his eyes alive and electric. "I should have known."
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
7. She's Just Not Worth Your Pretty If She Doesn't Like Your Family
You don't get to choose your family, but you do get to choose your friends. Thank God for that, right? And I can speak from experience when I say that my family drives me freaking insane, up the wall, batshit crazy. You don't always like them but you always love them. Your friends, on the other hand, could hate your family with a passion; hell, that's probably one of the reasons why you two became best friends in the first place! But whether she likes your family or not, it's the fact of does she respect them and treat them fairly when they're around and when they're not.
It's nice to commiserate about how sucky your family is, comparing their embarrassing moments with someone else, knowing that you're not alone in the department of Bloodline Dysfunction. But when all she's doing to ragging on your family, especially when you didn't start that conversation, then there's something wrong with her and she's not worth your (or your family's) pretty.
The "Her Family Is Perfect" Excuse
Whose family isn't a total puddle of bog water sometimes? And, when said family is starting tto stink more than usual, it's always nice to have your best friend to help you through it. But if she insists that her family is perfect, that they never giver her anything to complain about then she's not being honest with you. And if, in addition to insisting that her family is picture perfect, she's ragging on your family, then she's got some issues.
The "Her Family Is So Much Worse" Excuse
It is not a competition to see who's mother puts who through the most torture. It's all about getting through said torture together and in whole pieces. But if she starts making it a competition to see why her father is more of an embarrassment than yours, then she needs to see that she just ain't worth your pretty (and your dysfunct family's pretty, too).
The "My Family Treats Her Like Crap" Excuse
Just because your family may not be nice enough to treat her well doesn't give her the liberty to act the same. You want you best friend to be mature enough to be the bigger person, not to stoop to the level of not even going to your house lest she run into your live-in aunt who constantly berates her hairstyles and choice in clothing. But if she's being petty to your family, who's to say that she won't suddenly turn on you and the family you make for yourself in the future? In other words, she's not worth the risk or the pretty.
It's so simple! If she takes out all her bitch on your family, then there is something wrong!
Let's now delve into why this can get hard: if you do find that your family and your best friend are at odds with each other, sooner or later they're going to make you choose. And, either way you swing, the other side is going to feel hurt, betrayed, and let down. BE CAREFUL! Choose wisely and know that you're family is always going to be there (not necessarily for you, but they'll most of the time just 'be') and, if you're best friend really is worth your pretty, so will she, no matter what you choose.
It's nice to commiserate about how sucky your family is, comparing their embarrassing moments with someone else, knowing that you're not alone in the department of Bloodline Dysfunction. But when all she's doing to ragging on your family, especially when you didn't start that conversation, then there's something wrong with her and she's not worth your (or your family's) pretty.
The "Her Family Is Perfect" Excuse
Whose family isn't a total puddle of bog water sometimes? And, when said family is starting tto stink more than usual, it's always nice to have your best friend to help you through it. But if she insists that her family is perfect, that they never giver her anything to complain about then she's not being honest with you. And if, in addition to insisting that her family is picture perfect, she's ragging on your family, then she's got some issues.
The "Her Family Is So Much Worse" Excuse
It is not a competition to see who's mother puts who through the most torture. It's all about getting through said torture together and in whole pieces. But if she starts making it a competition to see why her father is more of an embarrassment than yours, then she needs to see that she just ain't worth your pretty (and your dysfunct family's pretty, too).
The "My Family Treats Her Like Crap" Excuse
Just because your family may not be nice enough to treat her well doesn't give her the liberty to act the same. You want you best friend to be mature enough to be the bigger person, not to stoop to the level of not even going to your house lest she run into your live-in aunt who constantly berates her hairstyles and choice in clothing. But if she's being petty to your family, who's to say that she won't suddenly turn on you and the family you make for yourself in the future? In other words, she's not worth the risk or the pretty.
It's so simple! If she takes out all her bitch on your family, then there is something wrong!
Let's now delve into why this can get hard: if you do find that your family and your best friend are at odds with each other, sooner or later they're going to make you choose. And, either way you swing, the other side is going to feel hurt, betrayed, and let down. BE CAREFUL! Choose wisely and know that you're family is always going to be there (not necessarily for you, but they'll most of the time just 'be') and, if you're best friend really is worth your pretty, so will she, no matter what you choose.
6. She's Just Not Worth Your Pretty If She Doesn't Like Your Man (Without Trying)
Boys: stupid yet stimulating, insufferable yet insatiable, and be damned if our world doesn't revolve around them. More than half our conversational subjects include boys, from how to snag one to how to train them. They're a healthy part of a friendship because they give us something to talk about.
It's normal if your best friend and your boyfriend don't get along: they both love you and want what's best for you and sometimes those opinions may oppose. But there will (at least there should) come a point where both of them will agree that their dislike for each other is trumped for their love for you. They will (again, should) try to co-exist peacefully for your sake, so you'd never be forced to choose between them.
Alas, this isn't always the case. I found that the bestie can feel left out when a boo comes into the picture, especially if said bestie is single herself. But if she doesn't try to make an effort to like him, to be nice to him when he's around and to keep the trash talk at a minimum, the she just ain't worth your pretty.
The "He's Not Good Enough For You" Excuse
She's worried. He has a tendency to act a little aloof when company's around. He seems cold and closed off. He can be immature at the worst possible times. He acts like a flirt. She sees all that and more and she tells you every time the opportunity arises. After awhile it gets pretty annoying so it's either she's right or she should have some faith in the decisions you make. If she is right, though, she will still make the effort to point out his good parts, to get along with him, to include him so as to try to see past her convictions. If she doesn't than she's judgemental, a bitch, and not worth your pretty.
The "He Doesn't Like Me So Why Should I Like Him" Excuse
It doesn't matter if he acts like a dick whenever your best friend is present. Okay, well, it does, but if there's one thing I've learned about men is that they are set in their ways and not always apt to change. But if she uses that as her excuse to act like a bitch towards and about him, then she's more than likely just a bitch in general. And we all know the rule about bitches: they're not worth your pretty.
The "There's So Many Things Wrong With Him" Excuse
If your best friend finds a problem with every small, miniscule flaw your boyfriend has, take this as a big warning sign. There are two main reasons that indicate that this is toxic behavior:
1) she is picky. While good for eyeing out the latest handbags and matching shoes, not good if she brings this trait over to discerning people; and
2) she's jealous and she can't talk to you about it.
If your girl can't let go of the fact that he is always munching on strawberry Mentos or he named his car, then she's not looking at the bigger picture, aka your happiness. So while she's obsessing over the fact that he wears socks with sandals, let herobsess over why she's just not worth your pretty.
It's so simple! She rags on the boyfriend means that she's a bad and bitchy friend! Okay, so it's not actually that simple. See, if she rags on him all the time or if she voices her opinions without and concern or regard for you and your feelings then that's when you know she's bad and she's bitchy. But if she takes you aside and says, "Hey, I think there's something sketchy about this dude," then maybe it might be a good idea to listen to her. But if it's always, "He's so dumb, he's an idiot, I bet he can't even spell neanderthal," without any warning then maybe it's not the boyfriend that needs the boot.
This can be hard, and I mean hard, because no one wants to be put into the position where they may have to choose between Boyfriend and Best Friend. In the perfect world, they would get along with each other and be friends themselves. That isn't always the case. Jealousies, hurt feelings, mixed signals all get in the way of that perfect picture. And picking out whether your best friend is watching out for you or being toxic is even harder because, let's face it, sex and having a man are pretty damn great and no one likes being proved wrong. So, before you boot anyone, think long and hard and decide whether He's Just Not That Into You or if She's Just Not Worth Your Pretty.
It's normal if your best friend and your boyfriend don't get along: they both love you and want what's best for you and sometimes those opinions may oppose. But there will (at least there should) come a point where both of them will agree that their dislike for each other is trumped for their love for you. They will (again, should) try to co-exist peacefully for your sake, so you'd never be forced to choose between them.
Alas, this isn't always the case. I found that the bestie can feel left out when a boo comes into the picture, especially if said bestie is single herself. But if she doesn't try to make an effort to like him, to be nice to him when he's around and to keep the trash talk at a minimum, the she just ain't worth your pretty.
The "He's Not Good Enough For You" Excuse
She's worried. He has a tendency to act a little aloof when company's around. He seems cold and closed off. He can be immature at the worst possible times. He acts like a flirt. She sees all that and more and she tells you every time the opportunity arises. After awhile it gets pretty annoying so it's either she's right or she should have some faith in the decisions you make. If she is right, though, she will still make the effort to point out his good parts, to get along with him, to include him so as to try to see past her convictions. If she doesn't than she's judgemental, a bitch, and not worth your pretty.
The "He Doesn't Like Me So Why Should I Like Him" Excuse
It doesn't matter if he acts like a dick whenever your best friend is present. Okay, well, it does, but if there's one thing I've learned about men is that they are set in their ways and not always apt to change. But if she uses that as her excuse to act like a bitch towards and about him, then she's more than likely just a bitch in general. And we all know the rule about bitches: they're not worth your pretty.
The "There's So Many Things Wrong With Him" Excuse
If your best friend finds a problem with every small, miniscule flaw your boyfriend has, take this as a big warning sign. There are two main reasons that indicate that this is toxic behavior:
1) she is picky. While good for eyeing out the latest handbags and matching shoes, not good if she brings this trait over to discerning people; and
2) she's jealous and she can't talk to you about it.
If your girl can't let go of the fact that he is always munching on strawberry Mentos or he named his car, then she's not looking at the bigger picture, aka your happiness. So while she's obsessing over the fact that he wears socks with sandals, let herobsess over why she's just not worth your pretty.
It's so simple! She rags on the boyfriend means that she's a bad and bitchy friend! Okay, so it's not actually that simple. See, if she rags on him all the time or if she voices her opinions without and concern or regard for you and your feelings then that's when you know she's bad and she's bitchy. But if she takes you aside and says, "Hey, I think there's something sketchy about this dude," then maybe it might be a good idea to listen to her. But if it's always, "He's so dumb, he's an idiot, I bet he can't even spell neanderthal," without any warning then maybe it's not the boyfriend that needs the boot.
This can be hard, and I mean hard, because no one wants to be put into the position where they may have to choose between Boyfriend and Best Friend. In the perfect world, they would get along with each other and be friends themselves. That isn't always the case. Jealousies, hurt feelings, mixed signals all get in the way of that perfect picture. And picking out whether your best friend is watching out for you or being toxic is even harder because, let's face it, sex and having a man are pretty damn great and no one likes being proved wrong. So, before you boot anyone, think long and hard and decide whether He's Just Not That Into You or if She's Just Not Worth Your Pretty.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
I want to wring your neck. Literally. Like, so hard that your eyes pop out of your skull. You're so fucking hard to deal with sometimes that I wish I could just kill you and collect the insurance money and live my life the way you never would've let me. Fuck. You say all these things and you can't even follow the shit that you say. And things are a lot easier when you say them and blame me or make me look bad. It's not so easy to do shit when you have an overbearing, widemouthed bitch standing over you.
I get that shit is happening. I'm trying my hardest to cope, to figure my own shit out, to fix whatever I have to fix but you're not helping whatsoever by standing there judging me and whatever. And it really doesn't help when you piss the fucking shit out of me and then expect me to take it in stride. One of these days I should tape record you so you can hear just how bitchy, demeaning, and judgemental you sound.
Fuck sake, be a fucking human being. Just because you seem to move at a robotic pace doesn't mean that the rest of us are as unfeeling and as coldly efficent as you.
I can't believe you sometimes. Really. You act as if everything you do for me is a favor. Well, it's not. And I go out on my ass for you, too, but I guess you just don't see it or maybe you don't want to see it. But I get it now, now I know why you have no friends, why no one in this family WANTS to talk to you. Here was I thinking, hmm maybe they just don't get you. Reality check: you're a fucking bitch. I guess I should never forget that, huh. Well, there goes my good mood. Surprise, surprise.
I get that shit is happening. I'm trying my hardest to cope, to figure my own shit out, to fix whatever I have to fix but you're not helping whatsoever by standing there judging me and whatever. And it really doesn't help when you piss the fucking shit out of me and then expect me to take it in stride. One of these days I should tape record you so you can hear just how bitchy, demeaning, and judgemental you sound.
Fuck sake, be a fucking human being. Just because you seem to move at a robotic pace doesn't mean that the rest of us are as unfeeling and as coldly efficent as you.
I can't believe you sometimes. Really. You act as if everything you do for me is a favor. Well, it's not. And I go out on my ass for you, too, but I guess you just don't see it or maybe you don't want to see it. But I get it now, now I know why you have no friends, why no one in this family WANTS to talk to you. Here was I thinking, hmm maybe they just don't get you. Reality check: you're a fucking bitch. I guess I should never forget that, huh. Well, there goes my good mood. Surprise, surprise.
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